


October 31st, 1981

by thehalfblackprincess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, During Canon, M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehalfblackprincess/pseuds/thehalfblackprincess
Summary: One-shot. Wormtail reflects on his life and choices on the night where everything changed.





	October 31st, 1981

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first time ever writing any sort of fic – I hope you enjoy it. :)

It’s Halloween, 1981, and it’s nearly midnight.

I look nervously towards my watch and admire how the stars and planets move around its face; at one point, this sight would have been comforting to me. But as I sit here, short fingers wrapped tightly around a nearly-empty glass of mulled Elf wine, that sort of ease feels far removed.

“You ready for another, Pettigrew?” Tom the toothless but well-meaning Innkeeper calls over from behind the polished wooden bar. The Leaky Cauldron has cleared out for the night, and I can tell he’s itching to retire upstairs. But I can’t leave yet, not until it’s time.

Can he sense how anxious I am? It seems as though the more I try to remain calm, to exude a relaxed composure, while I sip my third drink of the evening, my features only try harder to give me away. Maybe I should slow down, perhaps the alcohol is only diminishing the veil between my thoughts and outward feelings.

It seems a lifetime ago when I’d lie awake in that red-trimmed four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower, listening to his breathing. Remus and Sirius would be sleeping soundly; no doubt, their dreams filled with images of flying or broom-cupboard kisses with whomever they fancied at the moment. But sleep wouldn’t plague me, no matter how much I tried. It was almost as if, against all logic, I was worried that if I gave myself over to exhaustion, that would be four or five hours without hearing James’ sighs. Without knowing, reassuringly, that he was alive and nearly close enough to touch – if I ever thought he’d be open to it.

But this was before she came along. Before she finally saw what I did since that first day, from the moment he invited me into their compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Those first few hours I spent in his company, I felt as though I was finally, really alive. _Seen._ James exuded confidence, something I never could quite harness properly in myself.

* * *

_Gryffindor. Please._ I asked the Sorting Hat, hours later. Begged.

_Gryffindor?_ it asked, doubt unmistakable in its age-old voice, a tone of skepticism creeping along every syllable. _But surely, you’d do much better in Slytherin. With your cleverness? Your unwavering prioritization of your own preservation?_

I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly that the flickering, floating candlesticks became unknowable pricks against the inside of my eyelids. I could almost smell him, although he stood several feet away, next to Professor McGonagall: cinnamon, sandalwood, and something else – _soft, clean, unmarked skin_. And I could almost hear him, shifting nervously from foot to foot, since he was next in line.

I heard those words he spoke on the train, just hours ago, as clearly as if he was whispering them in my ear: _“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”_

_No,_ I assured the Hat. _It must be Gryffindor._

_If you insist,_ the hat replied, inside my head, disappointment apparent on his condescending lilt. Then, out-loud, it proclaimed, “Gryffindor!”

* * *

“Happy Christmas, Wormtail,” James murmured, smirking at me. Almost if he could sense what thoughts were racing through my head – but no, he couldn’t possibly. He just had that innate power, to make anyone feel like his closest confidant. We were sixth-years now and I knew – even if Padfoot and Moony didn’t – it was traits like these that magnetized us to him in the first place.

And I couldn’t help it; we were the last two left in The Room of Requirement, evidence of our Saturday night debauchery littered around us. I guess I could have blamed the copious amounts of firewhiskey I’d consumed that night. I could have pointed fingers at the soft, dim candlelights that twinkled and reflected off the mirrored walls, forcing my entire sense of reality into a haze. All I could feel was that endless stupor, that subliminal, irresistible weight that tugged me into his orbit. And I kissed him.

I’d imagined every outcome of this situation already. In those hours where I listened to him breathe through the red velvet curtains surrounding his four-poster, I’d gone over every single one. I’d even spied this very moment in the reflection of a singularly fascinating Mirror during third year. (Although it had disappeared the next day when I’d gone back to look again.)

I’d imagined that he’d hex me or hit me. I’d imagine that his lips would twist cruelly in disgust and let out a pointed laugh. I’d even let myself imagine once or twice that he’d kiss me back.

What I never expected was for his lips to turn soft, like I’d taken all the life away from him too. I’d never expected him to place his hands against my shoulders and gently push some distance between us. His pressure was so soft, as if he was worried he'd break me. What I'd never imagined, was that he’d still manage to smile at me – although, now it was trimmed with sadness and almost . . . what was that on his lips? _Pity._

“Mate,” he began, his voice as tender as his touch, “I’m sorry. I’m not – I mean . . . I have Lily, you know.”

I turned away, my fingertips finding my lips, burning as if they’d just touched poison. My cheeks flanked either side of them, also flushed as brightly as they'd ever been.

But Lily Evans was not a Marauder, as much as she wished she was. And she never would be. She’d never been there in the Shrieking Shack when Moony transformed. Never clenched her teeth while she heard his bones break themselves. She’d never withheld a sob with all her might as she listened to her friend moan in pain from the next room, knowing there wasn’t shit you could do about his monthly bout of misery.

I knew what I had to do. Professor Flitwick hadn’t taught us the type of Memory Charms that took memories away, just those that helped them stay. But I’d read about them in the Restricted Section . . . and what did I really have to lose?

Just as James’ hand landed on my shoulder to turn me towards him, willing us to confront what had just happened, my hand found my wand. I raised it towards his temple and before he could say anything more, I whispered, _“Obliviate.”_

* * *

More out of habit than anything else, I touched my left forearm, where the Dark Mark had been burned into my skin just a few months earlier. The Death Eaters didn’t treat me like some nondescript satellite being, someone they kept around out of habit, out of willingness to have some eternal comfort that verified their every move with unwavering adoration. No, the Death Eaters gave me more than that: they _appreciated _me. They almost revered me, for being the Dark Lord’s most trusted and loyal servant. _I_ was the one who brought him back to corporal form, who had the audacity to double-cross Dumbledore himself. They respected me without pretense; something I never knew I lacked with the Marauders until I felt it here, among the Death Eaters, within the walls of Malfoy Manor.__

____

__

“You better have something good,” Bellatrix hissed at me, as she pushed open the heavy oak door that led into their parlor.

He sat stiffly in an armchair near the fireplace, one pale, skeletal hand fingering his yew wand, the other idly stroking the scaly head of that vulgar, overgrown snake of his. His agitated frustration was almost palpable; I suspected Bella could sense it too – but I always thought my ability to perceive his feelings was due to our own connection.

“M-My Lord,” I stammered, feeling each letter stick in my throat, as if it was coated in stinksap. As I sunk onto one knee before him, I attempted to clear it, to no avail. “I have a r-recent development that m-might interest you –“

“I have little time for speculation, Wormtail,” the Dark Lord said coldly, with that same tone of low-expectation that only caused my excitement to throb achingly against my ribs. I was so close to coming out on the other side, to being praised, maybe even idolized – once I let loose this secret that would change everything.

* * *

“I’m afraid it’s that time, son,” Tom says, disrupting my reverie. “Just about midnight. This old man needs his rest just as much as the next one.”

I stand, letting my wooden chair scrape noisily across the Leaky’s stone floor. I press a few sickles into his palm and murmur my thanks, averting my eyes so he won’t see how bloodshot they are.

Stepping out into the cold, nearly-November air, I let those guilt-banishing words echo through my brain; like a mantra, a lifeline: _He chose her. He didn’t choose me. He chose her. He didn’t choose me._

And, just as I grip my wand, about ready to disapparate, I recall those heady words I spoke just hours ago. In that dreary sitting room, I felt the Fidelius Charm begin to unravel around me, releasing its hold on my windpipe – my decision was made but I needed to speak the words to unfurl its grip. To the Dark Lord himself, I said:

“They’ve made me their Secret-Keeper. I know the whereabouts of James, Lily, and Harry Potter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think in the comments! This is something I've always considered when reading the series and JK never specifies that Wormtail _isn't_ gay so ... :)


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